


Holding On in Four Acts

by Severina



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 23:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: No matter what happens, they're not going to let go.





	Holding On in Four Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's 1_million_words community February bingo, for the prompt "Don't let go"
> 
> * * *

"Don't let go!"

John's palm is slippery in his, and he can't tell if that's because of the leaf-slime or if John is as nervous as he is. He _does_ know that his voice hasn't reached this level of squeakitude since that time his mom found him rubbing one off to a centerfold of Justin Timberlake from one of his sister's Teen Beats. He'd thought the name of the magazine was very apropos. His mom hadn't been amused.

"Relax, kid," John says. As if he's lounging on his La-Z-Boy and reading the sports page, not dangling from the eaves trough of a three story mid-price suburban in Brooklyn. "Lucy's gettin' the ladder."

"You can't just call a repair man like a regular guy, Dad?" Lucy calls from somewhere below.

"You know what those shyster's charge, Luce?" John answers. "Eighty-nine ninety-five just to come out and look at the problem, he says. The problem is there's a bunch of soggy leaves cloggin' my goddamn eaves, that's the fuckin' problem. But no, he's gotta 'verify the situation' before he'll even—"

"Oh my god!" Matt shifts against the window ledge, which is digging a furrow into his stomach, and does his best to tighten his already turning-his-knuckles-white grip on John's hand. "Can you just – do you realize – WHY ARE YOU ARGUING ABOUT THIS?"

John cocks his head, meets his eyes, and _smirks_. "She asked."

"She asked," Matt intones. John's got one hip braced on the shingles and one foot semi-lodged in the now-broken eaves trough, but the rest of him is… "You are hanging ass over teakettle over a three story drop to a flagstone patio that will break your legs if not KILL YOU OUTRIGHT and… and… SHE ASKED."

John shrugs.

"Oughta just let you drop," Matt mutters.

"What's that, kid?"

"My life was simple. Boring, but simple. Didn't have a single grey hair 'til I met you," Matt grumbles.

"Can't hear a goddamn word you're sayin'."

"My life would be so much less complicated if—"

The _crack_ of the eaves trough finally letting go sounds like a shotgun blast. John's body suddenly lurches sideways, and Matt gets a quick glimpse of John's startled eyes before John's hand is wrenched from his grip. There is a staccato rattle of loose shingles – the machine gun to the trough's single shot – and John's arm flailing for purchase before he disappears over the side of the house.

Frozen in place, Matt can't breathe. Can only listen for the crunch of John's body hitting the pavement, for the snap of broken bones. The paralysis lasts perhaps as long as five seconds and then Matt is scrabbling for the open window, his thoughts scrambled, thinking only that he has to get outside, has to see, has to help…

And then John pokes his head over the top of the ladder. 

Matt blinks. "John?"

"I'm fine, kid," John says. "Jeeeezus, you worry too much. Gonna give yourself a damn heart attack."

~ * ~ * ~

"Don't let go!"

Willie's voice is two parts excitement, one part fear as she hurtles down the cul-de-sac on her brand new two-wheeler. Her long dark hair streams out from beneath her riding helmet, and if he didn't know better John would think that the man running behind her with one hand on the bicycle seat and the equally unkempt mop of hair was her father. Matt never did grow out of looking like a goddamn hippie.

"I got ya, Wills!" Matt yells as they stream past.

John shakes his head, leans forward in the lawn chair to rest his hands on his knees. Egbert, tied to the chair by his leash so that he won't overturn the bike in his enthusiasm, leans forward as well, his eager beagle eyes never leaving the little girl he loves. John pets his head absently as he too follows their progress. "Don't know where he gets the energy, Eggie."

"He _is_ half your age," Lucy points out with a smirk. She hands him the glass of lemonade she's just fetched from the kitchen then curls her free hand around her stomach and eases into the second chair. Baby Number Two is due in less than three weeks, Mark is still on active duty somewhere overseas, and … John has never been happier. 

Not that he _wants_ his daughter's husband to be out there risking his life on his second tour. But takin' care of his little girl and _her_ little girl these last few months has been pretty damn special.

Lucy cocks her head now, watches as Matt maneuvers her daughter into a wide U-turn at the end of the street. "You ever wonder what might've happened if Matt had said yes when I asked him out?"

"Ugh, Lucy!" John leans toward the grass and spits, the lemonade souring in his mouth. "Why you gotta bring something like that up, huh? You got somethin' against your old man?"

"He'd be Wilhelmina's dad."

"You're makin' me sick, Luce."

"And you'd be sitting here in the driveway drooling over my husband."

"What's this about husband droolage?" Matt asks. The new bike is overturned on the grass, Willie is rolling around with an ecstatic Egbert, and John is so caught up in imagining a life without Matthew Farrell in it that he has no idea how long his better half has been listening.

"Uh.."

Lucy says, "I was just wondering what would have happened—"

"If I hadn't asked you to move in with me after that bullsh—" John winces, sneaks a peek at an oblivious Wilhelmina, and continues, "—that craziness with Gabriel."

"Aaaah," Matt says. "Easy. I would have stalked you online, figuring out quite quickly what your routine was. And then I would have conveniently shown up wherever you were. That coffee shop on Lexington? I'd be there eating an egg-white omelet when you got there after shift for your 'black, none of that frou frou stuff'. That gym that you used to work out terrified me, 'cause if there was ever a place that I was gonna get my face smashed in it would be there, but I'd already planned out a whole big 'I want to learn to box so that I can defend myself in case there's a Fire Sale 2.0' story." 

"You had it all planned out, did ya, kid?" John raises his lemonade in salute, blinks when Matt snatches it out of his hand to take a hefty swallow. 

"You know it," he says with a grin. He gestures with the now-empty glass. "Gonna need more of this after round two. Teaching a girl to ride is hard work."

As if on cue, Willie tugs on his hand. "C'mon Pops! Let's do it again!"

Matt shrugs. "Got my marching orders."

"Just take it easy in this heat," Lucy says.

"Yeah, kid, don't wanna be draggin' your a—your butt to the hospital with a heart attack."

Matt laughs. "You worry too much, McClane!"

~ * ~ * ~

"I thought it was supposed to be me that ended up like this."

John's face is chalk-pale, but he manages a grin beneath the oxygen mask. 

"You can let other people catch the bad guys now. You know you're not fifty anymore, right?"

John lifts a hand to swipe his fingers clumsily through Matt's hair. Lifts a brow. And Matt can hear his voice just as if he spoke aloud. _Don't gotta tell me that, kid. This ain't exactly snow in your hair, is it?_

And then he'd probably add something about how Matt ought to cut his hair; just 'cause he was a professor now didn't mean that he shouldn't have some kind of respectability. And Matt would counter that all the cool profs had long hair, and it'd been a long time since he'd been a kid, McClane. And then…

Matt has to look away before the unsaid conversation overwhelms him. 

When he has himself under control, he looks back to the bed. John's eyes are closed, his hand cool and dry in his. Without that sea-green sparkling up at him, John looks every one of his seventy two years. 

And he doesn't care. They deserve more time together, damnit. They never even managed to get to Paris, even though they swore each and every year that _next year_ would be the time. But there were always dissertations to write and papers to grade; lectures to give at Quantico and meetings with the President. They should have made more time, focused on the things that were important, not—

Matt blinks when John squeezes his hand. The OR is prepped. The doctors are ready.

John's voice is muffled behind the mask, but Matt can hear him just fine. 

"Don't let go."

~ * ~ * ~

They move slowly together, two bodies learned by experience and love.

"Don't let go," Matt murmurs.

"Never, kid," John says. "Never."


End file.
